Litmus Test
by crackers4jenn
Summary: Leslie puts Ben through a sort of Litmus test. Not on purpose or anything. Okay, totally and completely on purpose, but whatever, it's accidentally on purpose, and, frankly, necessary. For their friendship. Takes place soon after Ben first arrives.


Leslie puts Ben through a sort of Litmus test. Not on purpose or anything **—** okay, totally and completely on purpose **—** but, whatever, it's accidentally on purpose, and, frankly, necessary. For their friendship.

Parked in front of Ben, who was eating something noodle-y outside when she found him, Leslie unfurls a map with grand flourish. Presentation is everything. He does his Ben thing **—** cocks an eyebrow, makes his mouth go all pinched-looking, gets that glower that must actually be more of a male thing in general because Tom and Ron and even Mark (dear, sweet Mark) wear (_wore_: oh, Mark) it frequently **— **and sits back in his seat, like he's the rapt audience and she's high up on some political step ladder.

Smoothing the map out, she edges his sytrofoam box full of food aside (some stuff clatters to the ground **— **not important) and (in her head, a full orchestra sounds) straightens to a stiff, locked knee stance while he takes it in.

All he does is bend forward ever so slightly, giving it the barest of look-overs. Which is so typical. Maybe not even of Ben in particular, but, ugh, what a non-Pawnee resident thing to do.

"What am I supposed to be looking at?"

She points an eager finger to the map's most identifiable feature. "That's the great state of Indiana!"

"Yeahhhh. They teach you that in Kindergarten." Do they? Well, that's good. "Okay, fine. You need me to specify. Why is there a map of Indiana smothering my sweet and sour chicken?"

Eyes lit up, nerves a'fire, she tests him: "If you could live anywhere **—** aaaaanywhere, who cares about finances or that town's increasing morbid obesity rate **—** where would you live?"

He doesn't even pause. "New York. New York City. Easy."

Gross, no. Why there? Why?

"Oh, Ben, that's... honestly, it's a really crappy choice, but. C'mon! Look at the map. Where, if you could pick, if you had total free will**—**"

"Huge _if _there," he dead pans.

"**—**whhhhhere would it be?" She tries to send him an optical Morse code that says: PICK PAWNEE! Even though that's sabotaging her own Litmus test. Ben should want to live here on his own. And yet, here she is, blinking out the right answer.

"I guess, and this is just based on **—** _wild_ **—** speculation, but. That map is here for a reason."

Three rapid blinks for: YES!

He narrows his eyes at her. "Okay. So. It's a map of Indiana." With great exaggeration, he leans over and really gives it some good scrutiny. "Hmmm. Where... in Indiana... would I _choose**—**_" Here, he meets Leslie's eyes. She blinks _WARM. WARMER. GETTING THERE! _at him. His gaze falls back to the map, and, satisfied, he points a finger at his preferred destination.

It's close enough to Pawnee that she raises a victorious fist, ready to pump some air. Until she realizes that _close enough_ means that he didn't actually choose Pawnee.

She collapses onto the bench beside him, whining, "Bennnnnnnn."

He laughs. "I'm kidding!" Looking more closely, he says, "Up until two seconds ago, I didn't even know... Rocky Ripple, Indiana existed. Wow, seriously?"

"You know why I'm asking, right?"

"You... _aren't _the census? I assumed that."

"It's because, okay! Say you got to pick where you lived**—**"

"This is a really progressive hypothetical world you're pitching."

"Say you could live anywhere. BUT! There's a catch. It _has_ to be in Indiana. I feel like, I don't know. I feel like, with this really wonderful, stagnant breeze hitting me just right, and that faint whiff of tar from where they're building the new highway in front of the elementary school, that there's a really obvious**—**" Here, she glances around them. Eyeballs their surroundings in a way that might be sort of leading. Then finishes, with a lot of emphasis and one eye partially narrowed, "**—**_choice._"

"Well, I already live in Indiana. I'm a _state _auditor, Leslie. For Indiana."

She stares blankly, waiting for his point.

"Fine," he sighs. "Why're you asking?"

"Because! The citizens want to know, Ben. The citizens want to know that Chris and the big, scary boogie man he brought with him aren't going to _slash_ this town's reputation while they're _knifing _its budget with murderous glee! And, well, liking Pawnee would help. Showing an interest," she adds, "would help." Really fast, she switches tactics. "Oh, oh! You know who we should get? We should get Shauna Malwae-Tweep in here."

"Okay. I don't know who that is, but. Sure. Okay. Let's get her in here. Great. Why?"

"She writes for the Pawnee Journal, but," Leslie frowns, remembering, "she _is _always twisting my words up."

"I _emphatically_ want her here."

"Here's a perfect headline: _Benji Wyatt**—**_"

"Oh. We don't**—**"

"_Pawnee Executioner. Semi-colon. Or Secret Pawnee Enthusiast?_ No. That's not good enough. _Benji Wyatt: Whomp, There His Pawnee Appreciation Is! Former Mayor Ben Wyatt's Surprising Affection For Local Residents Overrides His Previous Efforts To Destroy**—**_"

"Do we**—**? I don't think we**—**"

"Need this? Wow, okay. Wow. Clearly you don't get your information from the Pawnee Journal."

His blank stares says: No.

"Pawnee Gazette? The Pawnee Times? That's Life: The Daily Pawnee News Distribution? Chutes and Pawnee?"

"_No_. Wait, are those all real?"

"No, Ben, just like your local popularity, they're entirely fictional. YEAH, they're real! And if you don't believe me, ask the three subscriptions I have to each of them, they'll tell you. If papers could talk, which they can't, which is why we need a really good headline!"

Ben squints his eyes. "I don't really..."

"Care?" she fills in. "Yeah, that's not what those gaunt shadows under your eyes are saying. I'm sorry. That got mean. I shouldn't **—** Shoot. Look, all I'm saying is, you've been here long enough that staying in your motel room all the time is, frankly, really, really creepy. If we're talking scales, right now you are out-creeping Motel Joe **—** do you know how hard it is to out-creep that guy? He wears a vest that's bejeweled with _bird feathers_."

"Ahhhh," lets out Ben, with a deep, recollecting stare. "Motel Joe. You know what? I do see him a lot. I call him Eye Patch Joe, though. Because of the..."

"His peg leg? The half of his jaw that got bit off by a dog? How he literally only has a ragged portion of his skull covering his brain, and the rest is all bandages and staples?"

"His eye patch."

"I don't get it."

"He wears a **—** you know what? Never mind. Leslie," Ben says, and he grabs a folder that'd fallen to the ground, scooping up his stuff. "I will keep this in mind."

She gets to her feet before he can, because, as both a woman and a lady, it's proper. Plus, she's wearing a low-cut blouse today (it was a saucy kind of morning) and she'd really rather not invite that kind of attention. Unless he's already looking. If he's already looking, she's not going to _stop_ him.

Leslie stands real quick.

"I'll get Shauna Malwae-Tweep on the phone," she says, tugging at her jacket.

"Don't."

"You don't want me to?"

"You probably shouldn't."

"I shouldn't?"

"I don't think we need that kind of attention right now. You know?"

"Right. Pssssh. Of course! You... go on, then," she says, waving him away. "Go cut some budgets! But not too much now!"

He tips his trash towards her before dumping it in the garbage can, this friendly farewell gesture.

She sinks back onto the table's bench, disappointed. So, Ben failed her test. And now, all of Pawnee will probably revolt. Leslie literally might have a revolution on her hands. On the one hand **—** ohhh, her name would go down in the history books! She's always wanted her name to go down in the history books **—** but on the other? One hundred years from now, even though her name will be in history books, she doesn't care for the imagined mural portrayal of these events.

"Hey. Leslie," Ben says, over near the entrance-way. "No contest, I'd pick Pawnee. What kind of name is Rocky Ripple, anyway?" He gives her an easy smile before disappearing towards his office.

Leslie starts to grin. Just as sudden, a new headline hits her:

_Benji Wyatt; You Know What, Pawnee? That Guy Is Alright._


End file.
